


seven falls

by brophigenia



Series: trilogy of terror [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Caliban has no chill, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Marriage Proposal, Oral Sex, Sabrina really doesn't either, Spoilers for Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018) Season 3, between the unholy regalia quest two and three, lil baby domme out here with all her feelings, queen of hell sabrina spellman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: He won't have her debased.(AKA, Caliban goes down on Sabrina because of reasons. Canon compliant.)
Relationships: Caliban (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina)/Sabrina Spellman, past Sabrina Spellman/Harvey Kinkle, past Sabrina Spellman/Nicholas Scratch
Series: trilogy of terror [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668406
Comments: 3
Kudos: 162





	seven falls

**Author's Note:**

> Just, what.

_ oh, my love  _

_ she’s a plague.  _

_ *** _

“It’s ridiculous.” Caliban said, matter-of-fact. “You are the  _ queen of Hell.”  _

Sabrina huffed, looking pointedly away from Caliban and his yellow shirt and his… everything else. “I’m also  _ not having this conversation with you.”  _ She replied shortly, and looked down at the book in her lap for something else to do. Theo, Robin, and Harvey rode in the cab while Sabrina and Caliban rode with the blanket-wrapped, broken pieces of Roz in the bed. It reminded her of nights spent curled around Harvey, looking up at the sky. It reminded her of being young, and in love. Of the weight of her soul, ever-present and comforting in the most basic way, impossible to pinpoint until it was stripped away. 

(Sold for a song.) 

“It’s unheard of.” Caliban continued, though lower, when they were loading her best friend’s cracked stone carcass out in the parking lot of Baxter High. Her life was so bizarre that sometimes Sabrina thought she was dreaming. Maybe she’d never woken up from Battibat’s spell. Maybe she’d wake up tomorrow and be whole again, with Harvey at her side and Tommy at his. Maybe everything would go back to how it was. “A queen of Hell, untouched and virginal.” He did not even sound  _ lustful  _ saying the words- only mildly horrified. Like she was a frightening aberration of a thing. 

“I will  _ smite you.”  _ Sabrina threatened, low in her throat, feeling her vision go filmy, milky with the snow-white gaze that her true face revealed. Caliban quirked a grin, mouthing  _ promise?  _ even as she turned away, cheeks hot. 

_ “Nothing? _ Really?” Caliban mused, later, after he’d taken Harvey’s punch and said taunting words that made her heart ache for the boy she still loved (and always would) even as it settled in the hole in her chest and made it purr, egomaniacally pleased in a way that made her burn with shame. 

“I have done…  _ things!”  _ Sabrina insisted, crossing her arms tight over her chest, feeling terribly young before this clay-wrought demon, this so-called  _ prince of Hell.  _ “You’ve even  _ been there,  _ as I recall.” Yes, and  _ that  _ was a mistake- Caliban’s eyes grew darker and his grin grew sharper and she throbbed between her legs, thinking of exactly how  _ there  _ he’d  _ been.  _ How she’d pushed him away with all the vestiges of her lust-overcome strength. “Not that it’s any of your business what I have and have not- oh,  _ damn it!”  _ The potion she was brewing boiled over, reminding her of the night she’d challenged Nick for Top Boy in the Desecrated Church, her homework ruined as it spilled onto her papers below. 

Sabrina did not cry, because she was the queen of Hell, and queens did not cry. She’d been told that often enough in the past weeks by Lilith, who seemed to be an expert on the subject of what queens did and did not do, though Sabrina charitably had yet to point out that she’d had no  _ practical experience in the field.  _

Her hands curled into fists, nails piercing the soft flesh of her palms until little half-moons of blood welled up. She breathed in, in, in, until even the empty cavern where her soul once was felt like it was chock-full of air, and then breathed out in a slow, measured stream, counting the seconds it took to empty her lungs. Something she’d learned from Aunt Hilda, when she was small and her tantrums led to knicknacks flying off shelves, shattering midair. 

What a terror she’d been. How out of control she’d felt, and sad always. Alone, with a heart full of ice shards, desperately wishing she had a mommy and a daddy to care for her, to be a family the way all the other boys and girls had families. She’d loved Ambrose and the aunties, but it had not been the same in her childish heart. 

Before she’d known what her so-called father had done; what he’d subjected her mortal mother to. Who her  _ real  _ father was. 

She felt quiet and hollow inside when she’d finished her breathing exercise, though calm and blank. Mission achieved. She’d not shatter any breakables with her rage. 

Caliban, when she looked, was still watching her, though not in the mocking way she’d come to expect and dread from his too-perfect face. 

“I am yours to command, Princess.” He murmured, unobtrusive as he knew how to be; Sabrina  _ ached  _ with the promise in his words. 

Nick had been so devoted to her, once. Had been full of that same eager wanting to  _ please  _ her. She’d not taken him up on it then, because it had seemed like too much, too many feelings combined with too strong of a physical  _ want,  _ like if she gave into her own desires she’d doom them both. 

She’d been young with Harvey, and assumed that things would progress steadily until taking  _ that step  _ would be as easy as falling asleep, as riding a bike, as  _ anything.  _

Now she felt a thousand years old, and parched like she’d been wandering in the desert for half that long. Nothing was simple. Nothing was easy. 

“‘I’ve been cold since the Garden.’” She murmured, feeling half-asleep as she remembered standing on stage and looking up at Nick, lowering herself to her knees,  _ bowing  _ before him. Remembering how sour a taste it left in her mouth, but how the sentiment in the words was apt. She’d been cold for a long time. 

Now, soulless and abandoned, she was colder still. 

“Let me warm you, then.” Caliban whispered, like it was a secret only for her ears. They were alone. There was no one here, in her bedroom with its frilly bedding and dollhouse standing in active contrast to her Misfits posters and collection of tiny delicate bird bones. She was crouched on the floor with the messy ruin of her homework; it was the witching hour; she was  _ tired  _ of denying herself. 

“Lay down.” She told him, voice shaking only a little, raising up onto her feet and trying not to feel small in her thin cotton pajamas. There was nothing  _ small  _ about her. She was the queen of Hell. She was  _ Caliban’s  _ queen. He was a demon, and made of clay, and treacherous to his muddy bones. 

He didn’t try to argue, or dither, or flirt; Caliban laid his long, broad body out onto her bed and the fact that his ankles hung off the edge did not seem ridiculous but  _ hot,  _ in the fiery pit of depravity that her brain had devolved into. 

It was the matter of a snap of her fingers to render him shirtless; she trailed the very tips of her fingers over his bared chest and laughed in cruel delight when it made his stomach muscles jump, as if he were a real boy after all.  _ I’ll not have you debased,  _ he’d said when they’d taken him off to be whipped in her stead. 

“How many people have you taken to bed?” She asked him, and did not look at his face but instead at the skin she was tracing patterns over with her short fingernails. 

“People? Do you mean demons? Witches? Damned things?” Caliban asked, voice dripping like molasses into whiskey, indolent even as he was subservient. 

“How many?” She insisted, and tapped on the button fly of his jeans. It made him rumble deep in his chest, a pleased sort of sound like a dragon about to claim its hoard. Like  _ he _ was the one about to unwrap the object of  _ his _ desire like a present on Solstice Night.

“Countless  _ people,  _ my queen.” Caliban said, in that same low voice he’d used earlier, like his words were for her ears, and her ears alone. Like even the sound of his vocal chords chiming together was hers, belonging to no one else. 

Like he was all for her. 

_ My queen,  _ he said. 

She  _ owned _ him. 

There was nothing to be afraid of. Not from him. Not now, in this room where she held all the power. 

“On your knees.” She told him, too much like when she’d almost had him in her study in Pandemonium, but where then she’d been frigid with her fury now she was only hot with lust, falling back onto her own mattress and undoing the drawstring of her pajama pants, pushing them down to her ankles along with her panties until she was recklessly, boldly bare from the waist down, nothing but pitch-dark curls the same sooty color as her eyebrows and silver-pale skin. 

Caliban looked at her like he might grow teeth three inches long and  _ devour  _ her, skin and tendon and bone, all. 

“Well?” She asked, still riding high on her own daring, her own power, drunk with it and unafraid as she spread her legs and gave him a fearsome look.  _ “Caliban!”  _ She snapped, when he still did not move, staring so intently as to make the prickly beginnings of shame and self-consciousness flutter in her stomach.

Her sharp tone seemed to startle him, to awaken him from whatever fugue state that the sight of her bared sex had sent him spiraling into, for she’d no quicker said his name than she’d shouted it, hand fisted in his curls and shaking all over, the taste of blood electric in her mouth where she’d bitten down hard on the inside of her cheek by accident, half-blind with pleasure.

This was… 

She was  _ alive.  _ She was burning, syrupy pleasure that jolted straight down into the very marrow of her pubic bone, terrible and astounding and everything she’d thought it would be, but more, scarier, bigger, foreign even though she’d gotten herself off before, crashing waves of pleasure beneath the frilled sheets of the bed she lay upon even now. 

“Caliban,” she said, trying to keep the three-toned voice at bay, trying to sound just like herself, like Sabrina Spellman, not the Dark Lord of Hell.  _ “Now.” _

He understood; she swore that he unhooked his jaw like a  _ snake,  _ like a beast, all of her covered by wetness and suction and  _ teeth _ , glorious blunt pressure that had her brain short-circuiting, her whole body spasming, jackknifing up until she could curl around his head with all her limbs, holding him to her so she could ride out the last of the waves uninterrupted, no chance for tricksy maneuvers to make the aftershocks any less sweet than the orgasm had been. 

“Marry me, Sabrina.” Caliban moaned into her thigh, turning his head so he could smear kisses to the skin there, black-eyed and calculating. “I would worship you thus, every morning and night. Upon the throne of Hell, if you wished, before all the Lords of Disorder and the demons and the damned souls.” His words were spoken so sweetly, so hotly, like a soliloquy of dirty talk. She wondered if he’d practiced the pitch in the mirror, or was just making it up as he went along. 

“Yeah,  _ that’s _ not hot.” Sabrina lied, and with numb fingers drew her pajama bottoms back up her hips again, leaving them untied in favor of flopping her arms above her head, eyes closed and heartbeat still stuttering in her chest. 

Caliban didn’t reply, only kept kissing at her clothed skin, leaving smears of her wetness on the fabric that she’d have to wash sooner rather than later. 

The prospect of it -of  _ him- _ shouldn’t have seemed so tempting. Barely six months ago, she’d dreamt of marrying Harvey Kinkle in the viewing room downstairs, dressed in white lace and carrying lilies in her arms. 

The past seemed like a distant world. 

***

_ how can a child of the sun _

_ seem so cold?  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


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